


Sleeping Beauty

by BeaRyan



Series: Tropes for The 100 [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angsty!Bellamy, Bi!Bellamy, Dub Con since Lincoln is asleep, Kissing only, M/M, Sleeping Beauty trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3083735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaRyan/pseuds/BeaRyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy would do anything for Octavia, even try to understand what the hell she saw in 200 pounds of tattoos and murder.  By the time he sprinted out the door, into the night and away from what he'd done, he understood all too well. </p><p>One shot, but this ship might sail again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Beauty

Bellamy decided to pretend didn’t happen and make sure it never happened again. He couldn’t undo it, but he could keep from fucking up any further. As long as Octavia never found out, only he would ever know exactly how selfish and disloyal he was. As long as Octavia never found out he could live with himself. 

Lincoln had still been in medical, still recovering from what had been done to him at Mount Weather, and Octavia had only agreed to get some sleep if Bellamy had promised to stay with him, so he’d stayed. Of course he’d stay for Octavia. He’d do anything for Octavia, even try to understand what the hell she saw in 200 pounds of tattoos and murder. Goddamn Grounders. 

He’d sat and watched Lincoln sleep, slow deep breaths moving his massive chest in and out. When she’d cleaned him up, Octavia had shaved Lincoln’s head but not his face. She hadn’t explained why, but when he looked like that Bellamy could look at Lincoln and think of him as someone they’d rescued instead of someone he’d tortured. He let his eyes linger on the tattoos, really seeing for the first time the contrast between Lincoln’s dark skin and the even darker ink. The lines were crisp. They probably meant something. Bellamy let his hand stretch towards the sleeping man, close enough to touch the lines on his skin and trace the edge of the designs with one hesitant fingertip. 

He began with the ones on Lincoln’s arms. Straight solid lines wrapped around hard muscle. The one on his neck was close enough to seem like a logical next step. This wasn’t too much. This wasn’t running your hands over your sister’s boyfriend while he slept. This was a cultural study, an inquiry into the art of the native people. Bellamy’s breath hitched as his fingers carfully slid over the tendons of Lincoln’s neck and he shuddered at the transition point, the point on Lincoln’s jaw where the smoothness of skin gave way to the softness his beard. 

The tattoo looped behind his ear and Bellamy let his fingers follow it, tracing as much of the edge as he could, feeling the delicate, freshly shorn skin of Lincoln’s skull and then dipping further back, towards his spine, and down, and forward again, down his neck, forward. From there the designs on Lincoln’s chest didn’t seem so out of reach. They were close, if he stood up and leaned over a little. They were brackets, the letter L. There was no harm in touching. Trace the outline. Over, down, up, over. Lean over a little further. Touch the other side. Do it again. His skin seemed so soft for a man with such a hard life, certainly softer than Bellamy’s hands. Soft. And Lincoln smelled like soap. The clean scent of life on the Ark, back before he’d ever gotten anyone killed, before he’d ever killed anyone. 

With his hand on the far side of Lincoln’s chest, Bellamy’s mouth was just over Lincoln’s, his full lips were still visible despite the beard. His chest rose and fell steadily as the deep breaths of sleep moved in and out. How long had it been since he’d kissed someone? A real kiss, gentle and with care, not one that was just a prequel to sliding someone out of their pants. 

He moved before he lost his nerve. A quick peck. A slow brush of his lips against Lincoln’s sleeping, unresponsive ones. It was strange, a slight to the ego, to get no response at all, and so Bellamy kissed him again. Gently enough not to wake him but enough for it to slide into Lincoln’s dreams. Enough so that Bellamy wasn’t ignored and unimportant. He tugged Lincoln’s bottom lip with his teeth, kissing harder, seeking approval and affirmation as his lips tried to work magic where they never should have touched at all. He missed the first signs that he wasn’t simply kissing but being kissed in return. He lost track of the passage of time, the number of kisses. He lost control of the amount of passion in his kisses. It was a sound that woke him up, a deep satisfied cross between a moan and a growl. A sound girls didn’t make. A sound his sister’s boyfriend sure as hell shouldn’t be making with him. 

Bellamy ran, sprinting out into the night like a coward, before he ever knew if Lincoln had even been awake enough to know it was him. It never happened. Lincoln was still high on reaper drugs. Nothing he said could be trusted. Octavia would never believe it, could never believe it.

If Lincoln ever told her, she never mentioned it to Bellamy.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome. I think I like this pairing, but since I had to invent the tag for it, it's obviously not popular yet. If this is a pairing you want to see more of, please say so.


End file.
